It was to be the annual celebration of a successful month long charity. This was the piece de le resistance of the entire month long movement. It was going to be a cavalcade of browns, blondes, and much more. Get out the plaid and make your way to the bar boys, it’s your night.

So, given the opportunity to gawk at such marvels celebrating their little boys, I jumped at the chance. I had never attended one of these galas, but I didn’t appear it. We had been issued winning sashes “Man of Movember” and “Miss Movember”. It went fabulously well paired with my friend, the distinguished mustachio who was dressed to the nines in his top had and vest.

I had sensory overload as handsome fellow after handsome fellow filed into the club. So many choices and flavors of men with flavor savors. What to do? What to do?

As we made way to the bar, for the first time in ages, I got nervous. Not having a pair of testicles at a party celebrating them being healthy is not exactly a “woman’s party”. This become more apparent as each person that we spoke to made fast friends with my friend first. Except for one man in a newsboy hat.

I was standing by myself while my friend got drink after drink given to him. Out of the corner of my eye, there he was: a fanciful dressed chap in a newsboy hat and suspenders.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

We chatted a bit before my friend returned. We made our way to the dance floor. We got lost in the sea of stache and ended up getting separated. I looked over at my friend having a grand time, but something inside just was amiss with me that night. I felt the anxiety build up and needed an escape, so I phoned a friend and left. Immediately after however, I was told that he had come looking for me.